


This Fading Youth

by crickcada



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Personas (Persona Series), Amnesia, Drama & Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crickcada/pseuds/crickcada
Summary: A sixteen-year-old boy is found unconscious with blunt head trauma in one of Setagaya's residential areas. Although it's determined that no damage was done to his skull or brain, he wakes up without the ability to recall his name, family, childhood, or any other aspects of his past. Taking on the name Akira Kurusu, the boy decides to enroll in the prestigious Shujin Academy in order to maintain some level of normalcy. Hijinks ensue.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Kurusu Akira/Sakamoto Ryuji, Persona 5 Protagonist/Sakamoto Ryuji
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	This Fading Youth

It was meant to be strangely liberating not to be constrained to any one sense of identity – to not know who you were or where you’d come from – or, so the amnesiac had been told. However, he had no point of reference to compare his current life and experiences to, and so he sometimes found himself longing for the memories that he lacked in spite of what he’d heard. It was difficult for him to imagine that this radical feeling of all-encompassing empty-headedness was hotly sought after by those around him. A new start, a new beginning, one which transcended one’s past mistakes and gave them the superlative chance to become a better version of their self was what they really desired. To want to go to such lengths to improve oneself was irrevocably stupid and selfish. Although he could not remember his past mistakes, that did not mean that they did not happen, that the effects and consequences of his actions did not exist, or did not still exist. Quite contrarily, having no knowledge of his mistakes to learn from, he instead feared that he would inadvertently repeat them all the same. 

For a person left bereft of memories, his time in the hospital felt impossibly long. The events which led up to and followed his admission somehow seemed to blur together into a single, perpetual stream. According to the medical staff’s account, he’d been found unconscious in one of the innumerable alleyways that zigzagged throughout Setagaya’s residential districts with blunt head trauma. Missing from his person, however, were any personal belongings that may be used to identify him, such as a wallet or phone. The man who had found him did so by chance, having spotted his crumpled form on his way home from the convenience store. This he could only vaguely remember as a collection of atramental sensations. It had been raining that night. He recalled weaving in and out of consciousness as he lay with his cheek pressed into the asphalt, cool and damp and motionless as his body was pelted by an assault of precipitation. He recalled the blinding lights of the ambulance as they flashed overhead, the cacophony of voices as he was wheeled through the hospital’s linoleum halls. 

He did not regain awareness of his surroundings until that following morning. The sun spilled over the peaks of the neighbouring buildings and steadily climbed the skyline, staining the sky pink, as vibrant and yellow as an egg yolk. Last night’s rainfall was evident in the droplets which marked the windowpanes, the dampness of the pavement, and the water which gurgled past the gutters and drained into the city’s rancid underbelly. The clouds, having released their torrent upon the world below, hovered above them in a great sheet, broken into an array of soft, white channels and reminiscent of a freshly plowed field. Somewhere, a Japanese bush warbler was crying out for its fellowman, its song sharp and penetrating and staccato. Birds were always plentiful after a shower, and it was their morning calls that brought him back to his senses shortly before breakfast was brought to him: an unexpectedly lavish meal of sea bream, pickled daikon, rice, miso soup, chawanmushi, and green tea. He hadn’t even realized how hungry he was before the food was placed before him and it took a great deal of restraint not to immediately devour everything within sight. Instead, he opted for carefully removing the wooden chopsticks from their paper sleeve and snapping them apart before he started on his meal. 

The nurse asked him as he sipped his miso soup if he could remember what had happened the night before. He nodded because he did, in fact, at least recollect enough to understand why he was in the hospital, and the dull aching pain in his head only reaffirmed that fact. She explained what had happened nonetheless (perhaps a little too cheerfully) and reported that, despite the initial heavy bleeding, a quick examination of the skull and brain by their team of doctors made it glaringly apparent that no traumatic injury had been dealt to either. She was pleased to announce that, so long as his condition remained stable, he may be prescribed a topical cream to forestall infection and discharged from the hospital that very day. He listened to her explanation, silently attentive, as he continued onto his bream and pickled daikon, occasionally nodding to assure her that he understood. It was not until she asked him for his name that he faltered, pausing to look up at her with a dumbfounded expression midway through raising his chopsticks to his mouth, as if she had asked him something completely absurd. She seemed equally as confused and concerned, her brow furrowing deeper with each question he was unable to answer. When was he born? What were the names of his parents? Where did he live? Where did he go to school? He lowered his chopsticks and shook his head for the first time, his appetite waning. He didn’t know how to answer any of them. 

They called it psychogenic amnesia: an absence in memory caused by the effects of severe stress or psychological trauma on the brain, rather than any physical or physiological cause. That was the conclusion the doctors came to after a second extensive physical examination, as they were unable to determine any overlying factors that would have caused him to lose his memories in their entirety. Of course, it would take many more months of meticulous testing and observation to properly diagnose him but it helped to have a basis for the physicians to work off of. Therefore, he was labelled as a _potential_ case of psychogenic amnesia for the time being until it could be confirmed by some higher authority. 

At around 8:00 in the evening, after a day that had left him thoroughly emotionally drained, he received his very first visitor. The sky had just started to dim from a bright baby blue to a deeper, greyer colour not dissimilar to that of a pigeon’s feathers and he watched it idly through the smudged lenses of his black spectacles. Though his hospital room was accompanied by a wall-mounted TV, he laid with his hands folded over his chest and focused his attention solely to the window as if he were a forlorn corpse or earthbound spirit instead of just some injured high school kid. He did not move when he heard a sudden rapping on his door, or when the door swung open and an unfamiliar man entered with a modest “Pardon the intrusion”, bringing with him the commotion of the outside world and the acrid smell of coffee, his shoes clicking audibly against the tiled floor when he walked. In fact, he remained perfectly still until the man had reached his bedside at which point his eyes moved to meet his before the rest of his face had the chance. 

He stood tall in spite of his poor posture and dressed quite formally for the occasion, suited in a pale pink dress shirt, white blazer, and cream-coloured pants rolled up to his mid-calves. He held out his offering to the boy, a plastic bag containing perhaps half a dozen oranges, dangling by his fingertips, and did not take the seat at the window until he’d graciously accepted. He withdrew one of the fruits from the bag, perhaps to give his hands something to do, and held it in his palms. His visitor also received one of the fruits for himself and began to peel away its vibrant exterior without first asking for permission. The patient supposed he didn’t mind, after noting the man’s tired eyes and sullen expression. He was the one who had brought them, after all.

“My name’s Sojiro Sakura,” he said and his voice was low and gravelly, worn down from what may have once been a smooth and velvety tone after decades of constant use. “I’m the one who found you and called the ambulance last night.”

He nodded. He figured it might be something like that. There were few possibilities of who he could imagine would possibly visit him so soon into his admission. Moreover, he very much doubted that anyone who knew his true identity had managed locate him when they had so little to work off of. 

“Thank you,” he replied, averting his gaze from the other’s face when he spoke. His voice seemed foreign to his own ears. It was difficult to adjust to living in a body you had no recollection of. When he’d used the bathroom earlier, he spent a great deal of time examining his face in the mirror after his reflection had caught his eye, attempting various facial expressions in a venture to grow used to his appearance. “You saved me.”

Sojiro gave him a dismissive gesture with a wave of his hand and a shake of his head, changing the subject almost immediately. “How are you doing, kid? I hear you’ve got a bad case of amnesia. It must be hard on you.” Though gruff in demeanour, his words seemed genuine. 

“My head’s fine, but I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to feel otherwise,” he answered with a sigh, sinking deeper into his pillow. 

“I guess you wouldn’t,” Sojiro agreed, scratching at the back of his head awkwardly with one hand and holding his hip with the other, carefully balancing the orange in his lap as he did so. He let out a sigh of his own and slicked his hair back over his scalp before finally letting his hand rest on the nape of his neck. Suddenly, he straightened up as if remembering something important, and patted down his blazer in search of whatever it was he’d reminded himself of. From his pocket he produced a small, yellow book of a fairly impressive length and held it out for him to take. “Here.”

He accepted the book somewhat dubiously and found himself even more confused as he looked down at its illustrious cover, setting the orange down beside him as he shot his visitor a questioning look. “A phone book?”

Sojiro seemed a bit embarrassed to have to explain himself, turning his face away from the boy’s and using the opportunity to adjust the position of his wire-framed glasses and fidget with the end of his reasonably formidable chinstrap beard. He cleared his throat. “Well, I figured, since you can’t remember your name, I thought maybe you might want to pick one out for yourself. You know, just until you can remember what your real name is.” 

The thought of throwing his arms around the stranger and sobbing into his chest in an ostentatious show of gratitude crossed the boy’s mind, but he instead felt a sheepish smile tug at the corners of his mouth, equally shocked as he was touched. He couldn’t believe that someone so thoughtful actually existed – not that there was anyone else he was capable of comparing his kindness to. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said in all earnestness and something akin to pride seemed to sparkle in the old man’s eyes as he turned to flash him a wide grin. 

“I’ll leave you to it.” Sojiro stood and pressed the freshly peeled fruit into the boy’s chest, apparently determining that he was in greater need of it than the former was. “Take care of yourself, boy. I’ll check in on you again.” He clapped him firmly on the shoulder and gave him the kind of fatherly gaze that turned his insides to jelly and then he was off before he even had the chance to respond, taking the smell of coffee and his kind words along with him. 

Although the interaction had lasted a measly fifteen minutes, it wholly occupied the boy’s thoughts for the remainder of the night. Now that he’d experienced heartfelt friendliness and affability, his room felt excruciatingly empty. He fell asleep that night only after he’d nestled into his mattress and the low hum of the television had drowned out his thoughts with its endless, meandering dialogue.


End file.
